Rushing Waters
by Underthewillows3
Summary: Sherlock and John have been best friends and flatmates for some time, only recently taking the step to becoming a couple. John thought he knew everything about Sherlock, the great detective that seemed indestructible. But, he is only human after all. Johnlock. Dark themes including abuse.
1. The Mug

The day had started out innocently enough. Sherlock bounced around the flat, tossing this and that into boxes and cabinets, exhilarated by the latest case. John watched from his chair, smiling softly at Sherlock.

"It's nice to have you clean this flat for a change, you know," John said, his smile growing bigger.

"I'm not cleaning, John, I'm rearranging for the next case. Now that this case is over, everything needs to be somewhere else," Sherlock said, waving a pair of his black socks in his hand. He continued to buzz around the flat, complaining about how Anderson had so poorly handled the crime scene and the evidence.

John had grown used to his flatmate and now boyfriend's eccentric nature. He loved him for it, he had never loved anyone as much as he did Sherlock. He loved every fiber of his being, everything he was and was not.

Sherlock flew by him, stopping only to give him a kiss on the cheek. John blushed, he relished any show of affection from Sherlock. He had spent so many days and nights wishing for it, and now here he was, getting the kisses and love that he had only once dreamed of.

"I so enjoy seeing you blush, John," Sherlock said in his deep baritone, flashing his wonderful, smug half-smile. John laughed, tracing his fingers across the back of Sherlock's hand.

He bent over and grabbed John's favorite blue and white tea mug from the table beside him, but the mug slipped from his grasp and crashed onto the floor, the sound echoing throughout the flat. John stood up quickly, startled by the sound. Sherlock was bent over just enough that he matched John's height, and their faces met each other.

That's when John noticed something he never thought he would see from the great and seemingly invincible Sherlock Holmes.

He flinched.

It was a small gesture, but there nonetheless. The smile slowly left his face and his eyes avoided John's as he stooped to pick up the broken pieces of the mug.

"I'm sorry, John, so very sorry," Sherlock said.

No one else would've noticed the slight hitch in his speech, the tense posture Sherlock had. But John did.

John frowned as he crouched down to help Sherlock, "It's alright, love, no harm done. I have plenty of mugs." He was horrified to find he was using the same tone he used with victims of abuse or other terrible crimes.

Sherlock seemed to fold in on himself as John got down to his level. The giant of a man that John had fallen in love with was now trying to make himself as small as possible, as invisible as he could. It tore at John's heart. He reached to pick up a large piece of ceramic and accidentally brushed his sun-tanned hand against Sherlock's, who pulled his hand back so quickly he nearly fell over.

"Sherlock?" John asked worriedly and reached his hand towards Sherlock.

"No, please don't," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. His ocean blue eyes were clenched shut, his hands thrown up in a defensive position in front of his face.

John's heart skipped a beat. Sherlock thought he was going to hit him.

 _Abuse, abuse, abuse_

The word kept spinning around in John's head, making him nauseous. He held his hands up and open, keeping them as non-threatening as possible.

"I won't hurt you, Sherlock," he said, inching closer to Sherlock. He opened his eyes and all John could see was terror.

It made his heart sink even further and the nausea build up inside of him. Sherlock was never terrified, even when facing down the barrel of a gun or the ticking of a bomb. John was not only terribly saddened, but enraged at whoever made his Sherlock, his superhero, cower in front of him like a frightened child.

"Sherlock, it's alright," John tried again. This time he sat back on his heels and waited for Sherlock to move. He had evaluated countless victims of abuse and he knew that they needed to make all of the moves. They needed that control that had been viciously taken from them.

Sherlock glanced at him and back to the shattered mug, back to John, back to the mug. His eyes, shining with unshed tears, bounced back and forth again and again, until they finally settled on John.

"John?" He finally said, blinking rapidly, the tears finally running down his pale, sharp cheeks. He wrapped his arms around himself, his tailored jacket and ironed shirt becoming wrinkled. His breathing became rapid and his cheeks reddened, the realization of what had just happened hitting him completely.

"Yes, love, I'm here," John said, as softly as possible.

Sherlock surprised him by quickly jumping up and running to their room, leaving John bewildered. He stood up, ignoring his dizzy head, and ran to the closed and locked door. He knocked very gently, hoping desperately that Sherlock would let him come and hold him in his arms.

"Sherlock, can I come in?"

Quiet, broken sobs were his only response.


	2. The Boy

A/N: Thank you to all who are reading this story, reviews would be most appreciated. A brief warning for this chapter that it does contain the description of a crime scene involving a child. Thanks again!

* * *

John spent the remainder of the evening in a state of numb despair. How had he missed this? He had known Sherlock for 4 years now and loved him for just as long. How didn't he know? He sat in his armchair, wringing his hands and wracking his brain for any hint that Sherlock had tried to tell him, tried to reach out to him. He paced the floor throughout the night, hoping that Sherlock would reappear from the bedroom. He tried several times to get him to come out, or at least answer him, but all he was ever met with was silence.

He sat there for most of the night, waiting for Sherlock, until the darkness of sleep overcame him.

John woke up when the sun began to filter through the room, specks of dust glittering in the light. He slowly stretched out his stiff neck and limbs, pops and cracks coming from the joints. He glanced at the floor and saw the long forgotten mug, still shattered on the floor. He cleaned the mess up, scrubbing the sticky hardwood until there wasn't a trace left. The door to the bedroom still hadn't opened, but the soft, sorrowful notes of a violin were emanating from the room. All John could do was wait.

Around noon, the dark oak door creaked open and Sherlock emerged, dressed as well as ever. John wanted to run to him and hold him in his arms but kept himself composed. He didn't want to frighten Sherlock away.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. He hoped his face didn't show how worried he really was.

"Lestrade said he's got a case for us," Sherlock drawled as he threw his coat over his arms. He stood there expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, are you coming? Don't just sit there with your mouth gaping like you've seen a ghost, John," Sherlock finally said, his mouth quirked into a smile.

John hadn't realized he was staring at Sherlock in such a way and quickly closed his mouth. "Sherlock," he said, "are you sure you want to go to another case? I mean, with what happened last night…"

"What happened last night is of no concern, John," Sherlock quickly cut off.

"Of no concern? Sherlock, you were so afraid of me, scared that I was going to hurt you," John said, as gently as he could. He took a step towards Sherlock cautiously, hands in his pockets.

"John, there is no need to treat me like one of the victims you always love to coddle, nothing happened," Sherlock snapped, his eyebrows furrowed in anger, but his eyes briefly flashing with fear.

John tried to tamp his anger down. Sherlock needed him, he reminded himself. Who else did he really have?

"I'm just worried about you, love," John quietly said, his dark blue eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"There's nothing to worry about," he said, and with that he was gone, his brisk footsteps echoing up the stairs. John sighed and grabbed his jacket, following Sherlock.

* * *

The case was out in the countryside, green rolling hills flying past them as they sat in the cab. Sherlock sat far away from John, his body tensed and his hands sitting on his lap balled into fists. John couldn't help but stare at him, and for the first time noticed the small details that held a world of secrets. The nose he always thought was perfect was slightly crooked. Sherlock's left arm was just a bit shorter than his right, as if it hadn't grown quite right. His right foot was turned in as if someone had twisted it. A scar peeked out from the bottom of Sherlock's hairline where a gash once was.

John couldn't believe how stupid he had been. He had been blinded by the brilliance, the insufferable cleverness of this man. In doing so, he had failed to see that Sherlock had suffered far more than he ever thought possible.

The cab pulled up to a nondescript house, a brown wooden fence surrounding the property. The gray stone house was small, with the front porch filled with police officers. Lestrade came up to the gate to greet them.

"This one's a tough one, guys, one victim, eight years old. We have the father and mother here, they're pretty shaken up. Say they found their son on the floor. He sleeps on the top bunk without a railing and figured he fell out. But, I don't like it, it just doesn't seem right, Sherlock, that's why I brought you out here," Lestrade said.

He led them through the house. It was neat and tidy, the tan carpets looking as though they were barely walked on. They walked down a narrow hallway and came to the little boy's room. John took a deep breath before they headed in. Seeing kids like this never got any easier.

But what he saw, nearly shook him to his core.

He was small for his age, dressed in navy blue pajamas decorated with dinosaurs. He lay on his side, his eyes closed. A shock of raven, messy curls matted with blood sat on top of his head. His right arm was twisted at an awkward angle. The ghost of a black eye darkened the child's porcelain skin.

He knew why Lestrade had called them in. It was obvious that this wasn't an accident.

He glanced up at Sherlock. The corner of his mouth was twitching, his nostrils flared as he desperately tried to conceal his rage.

"Arrest the parents. The father killed the boy, but the mother assisted in the abuse," Sherlock growled and swept out of the room, his long coat billowing behind him.

Lestrade nodded his head and sighed, "We figured as much. The poor kid doesn't look like he just fell out of bed." After a long pause he added absentmindedly, "He kind of looks like Sherlock, doesn't he."

Lestrade only saw the hair that was black as night and the pale skin. But John saw the bruises and the blood and knew that this little boy looked more like Sherlock than anyone could have imagined.


	3. Hiding

John sat in the cab with his head pressed against the cold, hard glass. It had begun to rain, the drops running quickly down the window. He had such a headache, the bloodied mop of curls on the small head burned into his mind for a lifetime. He looked down at his phone, the string of unanswered messages pulled up on the screen. He hesitated over the keyboard, his thumb swinging in circles, before finally typing.

'Sherlock, where are you?- JW'

The signature at the end was hardly necessary at this point, but it was a comforting habit for both of them. So much had changed since they first met, but the way they texted didn't. It was such a small part of their lives, but John had learned that the smallest things mattered to Sherlock. They gave him comfort.

John sighed, his message again remaining unanswered. He was worried beyond belief. Nothing had ever shaken Sherlock Holmes out of the mold that John had built for him. He was larger than life, the most brilliant man in the world. The touches of human suffering that he had seen in Sherlock these last two days frightened John more than any bullet, any bomb, any crazed murderer they had met.

The cab finally pulled up to 221B. John tossed a few bills at the cabbie and ran up the steps to the large front door. He unlocked and pushed the door slowly open before quietly ascending the stairs to his flat. There wasn't any light coming from the bottom of the door, making John's mind race with worry. If Sherlock wasn't home, where was he?

John opened the door to the darkened room and saw Sherlock standing at the window, staring out into the street below.

"Sherlock?" John said, as gently as he could.

"Hello, John," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The hitch in his voice didn't go unnoticed by John, who struggled to keep himself together. He could sense that their world was cracking, beginning to break into unrecognizable pieces.

"I'm going to turn the light on now," he said, as calmly as he could. When did he decide he had to announce everything he was going to do? John felt like he was defusing a bomb, every move he made could set it off at any time.

"No, John, please," the strangled, deep voice said as it turned toward John.

Please. The word that barely crossed Sherlock's lips made John shudder every time he uttered it. Sherlock Holmes didn't ask, didn't beg.

"I have to see where I'm walking, love," John said, the tension in the air rising with every passing second. The bomb was about to go off.

John flipped the light on and was shocked by the flood of tears running down Sherlock's cheeks. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with red, his nose red from where he had been rubbing it.

They both stood silent for a moment, interjected with the soft sound of Sherlock sniffling. He made no attempt to wipe his face or staunch the flow of tears that kept pouring down. His lips were trembling as he tried desperately to keep from crying out.

"Sherlock, come, sit down on the sofa here," John stepped towards his love, his hands held out in front of him. Sherlock wordlessly nodded, reaching his right hand out to John. He took it, frowning at how cold it was. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock's hair was wet and his body was trembling ever so slightly.

"My God, Sherlock you're freezing, did you walk all the way home in this rain?" John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame. "Sit down and I'll get you some blankets." He managed to maneuver Sherlock onto the cushions, pulling his jacket off and draping it over the bony shoulders.

Whispered words stopped John in his tracks.

"I had to wash him off of me," Sherlock said, his eyes distant, looking into a past that he hadn't faced in so long.

"Who, Sherlock? Who hurt you?" John whispered back, sitting next to Sherlock and taking the freezing hand in his, rubbing his tanned thumb across the pale white skin.

He looked at John then, the pain behind the his eyes making his heart ache until he thought it was breaking in two.

"Can't tell," he said, his voice almost child-like, "he'll kill me, he'll kill me like Hunter."

Hunter. The little boy that had gone to school and played soccer, who had loved dinosaurs and had just started learning cursive. The little boy who came home every day to be beaten. The little boy with broken limbs and a crushed skull. The little boy who no one helped, no one saved.

Sherlock could have easily been Hunter. No one came to save him either. Not until John Watson.

"No, my love, you're safe, you're safe right here with me and I won't let anyone hurt you ever again, I promise you," John said, his hand brushing through swirls of inky curls.

"He'll find me, he always did," Sherlock said, his eyes darting about, his whole body trembling with fear. "He found me no matter where I hid."

"I won't let him find you, we'll hide together, in the farthest place we can find, the darkest hiding spot. I'll stay there with you as long as we need."

Sherlock at last looked at him properly, pools of tears shining in those ocean eyes. He gripped John's hand so tightly that John was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers.

"You promise?"

"I promise with everything I have, Sherlock. No one will hurt you. I will protect you from now on," John said, cupping Sherlock's cheek with his hand, brushing away the multitude of tears.

Sherlock studied him for a moment, his eyes locked onto John's. His breathing was growing rapid, more shallow. The panic in Sherlock was rising, he hadn't told anyone his secret for nearly 25 years. Now he was about to tell everything, to the soldier that would keep him out of harm's way. He licked his lips, his mouth had become exceedingly dry.

"My father," he said in a single breath before falling into John's arms, his anguished scream piercing the air, piercing John's heart.


	4. Monsters

A/N: Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and followed/favorited this story. It means so much to me, really. Just a brief warning that this does contain a scene of child abuse, not too graphic, but could be triggered for some readers. Thank you all again and I hope you enjoy this next chapter of Rushing Waters.

* * *

The yelling had begun around half past seven, the tall, thin man with jet black hair screaming at his wife. He didn't notice the small figure cowering in the shadows, his tiny fingers wrapped around Momo, his stuffed elephant. Sherlock was frightened, Daddy never yelled like this, especially not at Mummy. But, Daddy had been acting funny for a little while now, yelling about money and what Mummy buys at the store.

Sherlock took a step back, ready to run up the stairs and shut himself in his room. He bumped Mummy's tea mug, shattering it into a million porcelain pieces on the dark hardwood. His Daddy's head flew up, the room echoing with deafening silence. Sherlock looked back at him, more frightened than he ever had been in his short six years. Wild blue eyes bore into him from across the room. Sherlock took another step back, right onto a piece of the mug. He felt it slice into his foot and burst into tears.

"WILLIAM!" His Daddy shouted as he began to stomp toward him. Sherlock was even more scared now, Daddy never called him that. He was always his little Sherlock. Despite the burning pain in his foot, Sherlock turned around quickly and ran as fast as his little legs could carry him, up the stairs, tracking blood the whole way.

He scurried under his bed, hoping that his Daddy couldn't find him. He could hear him barging up the stairs and down the long corridor that led to the nursery. He was shouting loud, not very nice words. He was tucking himself into a corner on the dusty floor when he was grabbed by his leg and dragged out from underneath the bed, the plush navy carpet scraping against his chin. His small fingers reached desperately for anything that he could grab onto to get away from this monster. This wasn't his Daddy.

 _WHACK_

The sting of a belt came down on the little boy's back. He couldn't help but cry out.

"Mummy! Mummy!" He wailed, the tears coming fast down his face.

The belt came down again and again, Sherlock crying out for his mother, his brother, someone, anyone that could help him. His cries grew weaker with every lash, until finally, he was silent.

* * *

"It happened with increasing frequency, every one of my limbs had been broken by the age of eleven. My nose broken countless times, even a skull fracture at one point. All hidden and explained away. We went to different hospitals, bribes were given, all of them sent me back to that hell. My father was found face down in our pond when I was thirteen. It was assumed that he had drowned while in one of his drunken states, I was just glad to be finally rid of his torment. My mother was obviously under the same regime, she died in my arms not long after from all the trauma that she had suffered for years. Mycroft never knew the extent of the abuse, he had other business to attend to. Far more important than his mother and younger brother," Sherlock spat out the last sentence with all the disgust he had.

John, his face having taken a slightly grey hue, ran his hand over the head in his lap again and again, speechless at what Sherlock had just disclosed. They sat in John's chair like that for a long time, until he finally spoke.

"He's lucky he's dead, otherwise I would go out and kill the bastard right now."

Sherlock gave the slightest smile and reached for John's hand, grasping the well-worn fingers in his. He loved holding John's hands. They were always so sure, always there for Sherlock.

"I have no doubt in my mind, John," he said, his thin fingers brushing gently across John's, "do you think that's why I am the way I am? Monsters beget monsters after all."

"What?" John nearly shouted, startling Sherlock out of his lap. John saw the fear flash through the ice blue eyes and softened his voice, "Sherlock, love, you aren't a monster, you aren't a freak. You are so very wonderful. You help those who don't have anyone else, you've saved lives, you've brought closure to grieving families, and justice to those who were unjustly taken. I know how deeply you care about others, why would you do what you do if you didn't? I don't want to hear those words ever come out of your mouth again, Sherlock, because you're everything to me, my whole, damn, perfect world."

Sherlock just stared at John, his eyes wide. For the first time in his life, he couldn't find words.

"You are not your father, Sherlock, and you never will be such scum. Never."

Sherlock's eyes shone with tears, threatening to spill over onto his pressed white shirt. He looked into his lap, his hands still holding John's. The tears spilled over and splashed onto the backs of their hands.

"I just wanted him to love me," Sherlock whispered, the heartbreak of that little boy betrayed so long ago evident in his voice.

John said nothing, what could he say really? He simply wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close. He kissed his nose, the spot on his skull that was slightly dented in, underneath the once bruised eyes, on the jutting collarbone that had been broken so many times.

He knew he couldn't take all of the pain away, no one ever could erase those haunting memories. John just wanted Sherlock to know that he was loved now, no matter what had happened in the past.

Sherlock sighed, the tears of pain becoming tears of relief. There weren't any monsters anymore.

He was safe now.


	5. Help

But, the nightmares continued and night after long night, John would find himself holding onto a terrified Sherlock, whose shirt would be soaked right through with sweat, tears running down his face. After awhile, Sherlock would calm down and the two would drift back into a restless sleep, their hands gripped tightly in each other's.

It was the morning after a particularly difficult night. John sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper with bleary eyes. He drank from his mug, hoping that the black coffee would help him wake up just a bit. He really didn't know how much longer he could go on like this. They were both averaging 4 hours of sleep a night and John's arms and chest were covered in bruises, scratches, and scrapes from Sherlock thrashing around.

John had just gotten to the sports section when Sherlock came shuffling into the room, his normal gracefulness marred by lack of sleep.

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said, "the pot of coffee's still warm and I made some toast for you."

Sherlock turned his head as he reached into the cabinet, a small but grateful smile on his face. "Thank you, John, I'll just take this into the study then." He filled his mug with coffee and took the buttered toast and slipped quietly into the hallway. John could hear the soft click of the door as it shut.

He sighed. Sherlock had been becoming more distant ever since that rainy night a few weeks ago. John had tried everything to help Sherlock, he avoided him, became overbearing, tried to distract him with games and cases, but nothing seemed to help. Sherlock would realize what John was trying to do about halfway through and give that same small, sad smile and get up and walk into his study to work on whatever it was he had in there. It was driving him mad. He hated feeling useless and so out of his league. He knew Sherlock needed professional help, but he also knew that Sherlock would vehemently refuse to even consider it.

"You're the only doctor I need, John," he would say, a flash of defiance apparent in his ice blue eyes.

Except that John was the kind of doctor that could suture wounds closed and give medications for infections. He couldn't heal this kind of trauma. He could only watch as it destroyed them both, as it tossed and turned them at night and hid behind the façade that everything was just fine during the day. As he sat there, the urge to just _do something_ grew and grew until he couldn't stand it anymore. He got up and went over to the door of the study, hesitating only a moment before knocking.

"It's me, Sherlock," he said, pressing his ear to the door.

"Who else would it be," Sherlock drawled back.

A pause.

"What do you need?" Sherlock asked.

John could hear the shuffling of papers and the clip of scissors.

"Can I come in and talk with you?"

"No."

John sighed as loud as he could, setting his forehead against the door.

"Right, well, I'm coming in anyway," he said. He grabbed the doorknob and wiggled it to the left and right. He had to learn every doorknob in 221B, Sherlock had a habit of locking himself in rooms. The lock clicked and the door swung open.

Sherlock sat at his solid oak desk, quickly shuffling papers and a large book into the drawer. He looked at John reproachfully.

"I told you I didn't want to speak with you, John," he said, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

"I know, Sherlock, but I want to speak with you. So I'm going to talk and you can listen or not, I just need to get this off my chest." John said quickly, walking over to Sherlock and taking his smooth hands between his rough ones. Sherlock looked up at him, a surprised look on his face.

"Sherlock, we're drowning, absolutely drowning in all of this. You're not sleeping, plagued by screaming nightmares of what that bastard did to you. I'm not sleeping and I feel myself losing you more and more every day. You don't even answer Lestrade's calls anymore, you haven't taken a case since Hunter's," John paused, a lump suddenly forming in his throat, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes.

"I can't lose you, Sherlock, not again. I can't…I can't live without you. Please, you have to see someone. I can't help you like you need. Please, Sherlock, I'm begging you."

The tears spilled over, making long, wet tracks down John's cheeks. He began to cry in earnest, the pent up frustrations and heartache finally making its way out after two long weeks of just trying to keep everything together.

"Why do you do this to me, John," Sherlock said quietly.

An angry flame sparked within John. What _HE_ did to Sherlock? He didn't do anything to Sherlock except love him and follow him and support him through every damn crazy case and escapade. He whipped his head up to look at Sherlock, but immediately the flame died as soon as he saw him.

He was crying, the pain written on his face unmistakable. The ice blue irises stuck out in his red and irritated eyes, the dark shadows underneath them darker than John had ever seen.

All he wanted to do was hug him and hold him and tell him everything would be alright. But that would stop the conversation, and John didn't want that.

"What did I do, Sherlock?" John said, wiping away the tears on Sherlock's pale face with his thumb.

"You make me feel so much, John, I feel everything now. The emotions I thought I had long erased or found a way to cope with have all been flooding back. And I…I don't know what to do, John," he broke down further, his cries piercing right through John.

John crouched down and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him to him. They both wept into each other's arms, the walls built increasingly over the last few weeks tumbling down.

"I don't know how to deal with this, John. I feel as though my heart is going to burst with sadness and despair and all the pain inflicted on me. And then I see you and hear your voice and feel you holding me at night and in that moment everything is alright and all I can feel is how much I love you, how you are everything to me. But then you go to work or to the shops and the bad feelings come flooding back and I can't…I can't handle it on my own, John."

"It's alright, Sherlock, it's alright. You just need some help is all. Just a little bit of help. We'll find someone who specializes in this stuff, and then it'll get better," he said, stroking the dark mop of curls lying on his shoulder.

The crying slowed down to a sniffle and John could feel his love's breaths evening out. Sherlock picked his head up off of John's shoulder and sighed.

"I just want to be the brilliant Sherlock Holmes again, helping the bumbling Scotland Yard solve mindless cases and composing and just, God, here I am blathering again." He stood up, his hands running through his hair, making it stand straight up. "The impedance of these emotions on my…our…lives, is too great to overcome."

John got up and went over to Sherlock. He was shaking like a leaf. "Calm down, Sherlock, we'll get through this, just like everything else we've done. This is what love is, Sherlock, pulling each other up and dusting each other off and setting them right side up again. I'm not going anywhere, and we will overcome this, Sherlock, I promise you."

Sherlock nodded, a small sniffle escaping him. "Call Mycroft, I'm sure he's already got someone lined up."

He turned to go but stopped mid step. "Oh, I almost forgot." He went over to the desk and took out the large book he had put in there earlier.

"Here," he said, handing it to John.

"What is it?" John turned it over in his hands, but the blank, bound black leather covers gave no hints.

"Us." Sherlock said, kissing John on the forehead and swiftly turning and walking out the door.

John gave a small laugh. Mysterious as always. He went over to the desk chair and sat down, placing the book on the desk and opening it.

A smile lit across John's face when he saw the first page.

"Oh, Sherlock," John said, his smile getting even bigger.


End file.
